Little Things
by Scribe Figaro
Summary: MirokuSango relationship drabble. Sort of a companion piece to Sweet and Sour. Sango's perspective, so less eyebrow raising. Really.


**Little Things**  
by Scribe Figaro

She was thankful for the little things.

Days became nights, and nights became days again, and she thought of her friends, and of her brother, but not so much of herself. Not because she was self-sacrificing, though she was, to a good degree. But because it was sometimes much harder to think of herself, and the things that have happened to her.

It was hard for her to recognize that the skin torn from her back would never quite be the same. That she was not as attractive as she was before then. It was a petty thing. A vain thing. A cruel thing, for her to worry about a silly scar, when it happened within the same minute that her father and brother were taken from this world. A selfish thing, that she was jealous of the fair skin of the women she met. Jealous of Kagome. Kagome, whose magic protected her from deep wounds, and from infection.

It was silly for Sango to think that, someday soon, Houshi-sama would hold her, and undress her, and his fingers would trace along her shoulders, and down her spine, and he would find not the gentle curve of a woman's back, but the scar tissue, badly healed, like a sinewy hand burned onto the skin, Narkau's hand, and Houshi-sama would stop, and he would feel sorry for her, and Sango would most likely cry.

Sango was thankful she was not the sort of woman to own a mirror.

Like any old wound, it hurt sometimes. Not because it was healing, as she could tell it had long passed the point where the would would get any better. More of a phantom pain, more of a -

"It itches, sometimes."

* * *

Not long ago, Sango would have been startled to find the houshi so close, sitting comfortably, clearly having spent a good few minutes right beside her without her slightest notice. It was difficult for even an insect to get that close to her, even when totally lost in her thoughts. That Houshi-sama could so easily sneak up on a taiji-ya was something that continually impressed her. 

"Houshi-sama?"

He squeezed his right hand in a fist, then relaxed it to a half-open palm.

"It used to be, I thought it was Naraku's influence. That every once in a while, he made my hand ache, to remind me of the gravity of the Kazaana. That it is not merely his mark on me, but his means of controlling me. But now I think it is merely my own mind, my will, which reminds me. It reminds me that my task is not complete, that two generations of my family call out for justice."

This was Houshi-sama's way of asking her what was wrong. She knew he would not prompt her any further.

"The scar my brother gave me. That Naraku gave me. It bothers me tonight. It does that a lot. It reminds me that my family is gone, and that I have been marked for execution at some later date. When it hurts, I cannot help imagine Naraku holds the other end of a string, or a web, tied to a hook in my skin, and that he could just rip me open with a swift tug."

"That is likely what he wants you to think. Naraku's most dangerous skill is his uncanny ability to fog the minds of those he opposses. You are not cursed, Sango. I'm certain it's just a normal scar."

"Have you even seen it, Houshi-sama?"

"Since the only opportunity for such a thing would be while you were bathing or changing your clothes, no, I have not."

She eyed him suspciously.

"Such a detail is difficult to discern when hiding in trees and brush," he added.

"How unfortunate for you," she said dryly.

"I try to carry on."

When he was in this playful way, she often tried to follow along, but she was too shy and too brooding to keep up with his sort of banter even when she was in a light mood, and for tonight she could do little more than shake her head in exasperation.

"I don't understand how you can be so light-hearted all the time, Houshi-sama. I'm sure it makes things easier for you, to act as if we do not risk certain death with every step we take. But I can't do it. Both of us have last everything, Houshi-sama. But it makes you joyful, and it makes me numb. And it makes me angry, that you can be hurt so badly, and carry it so damned well. You make it so that I'm the one who has to bring everyone else down. I'm the one who needs to be consoled. I'm the one who can't deal with her own problems without crying on Kagome's lap, or Houshi-sama's shoulder."

"I have not lost everything, Sango. I am alive. I have no certainty I will live through this week, but that makes me no different from any other man. I am in good health. I have a goal that I can pursue with a sincere and righteous heart. I have friends I can trust my life to. I have a future planned with a woman I love. The things which pull me down are nothing compared to the things which pull me up. My burden is unbearably light."

Someday, Houshi-sama would mention, in an equally casual way, what she was to him, and she would be so used to it that it would not make her breath catch, her face blaze crimson, and her eyes flit around nervously, but she believed that day would not come for many many years, if ever.

"I do not know why I deal with my problems so lightly, while you deal with yours so seriously. It is simply how we are, Sango. I would not ask you to feel or behave in any way other than what is natural to you."

"What is natural to me is to sit here and dwell uselessly on things I cannot help or fix. I've been this way since I was a child. And it was okay then, because I was young, and I was not depriving anyone of my attentions, because no man had right to them. But now . . ."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"But now," he said, "Sango cannot dwell uselessly alone. Her man insists he dwell uselessly with her."

She clutched her shoulders, turning away from him so she did not have to lie to his face.

"I wish you wouldn't do such pointless things."

His hand touched her shoulder, giving a reassuring squeeze, and with his coaxing she leaned into him.

* * *

When Sango was a child, and sought a safe place to hide her tears, she would escape. She would escape to safe places, crouch in fields high with wheat, huddle beneath fallen trees, fingers interlaced atop dirty feet, forehead to her scabby knees, and there she could curse and weep without shaming her father or embarrassing Kohaku. 

When Sango became a woman, there was no place for her to hide, and she discreetly swallowed salty tears and misery, and no one knew how often, how quietly, she cried.

And now there was Houshi-sama. Soft but strong, yielding to her touch, like so many wooden, mossy hiding spots, and one side of him was like tempered steel, the side that he showed to the things which sought to hurt her. Rough like tree bark, soft like sandstone, immobile and elemental he was to her.

Sango pressed herself tight to him, and in the wake of the mountain she hid, protected from wind and storms, warmed by the radiating heat of the stony façade, kept dry by the arching canopy of his arms, and in the shelter of his robes she could curse and weep, and if she fell asleep there he would move no more than any other shelter.

Sango was thankful for that.

She was thankful for the little things.


End file.
